


Writeworld prompt

by thisisratherfun



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Post Reichenbach, Reunion, writeworld prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-17
Updated: 2013-03-17
Packaged: 2017-12-05 14:23:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/724301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisisratherfun/pseuds/thisisratherfun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is determined to move on with his life. He wants to let go of the past and start living again. Of course, Sherlock ruined that plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Writeworld prompt

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic so please be kind. This has not been beta'd so any feedback would be great and I hope you enjoy this short fic.
> 
> This fic was inspired by the following Writeworld prompt;
> 
> The steaming mug of tea drew a slow, hot circle in the laminate of the coffee table.
> 
> The post for this prompt can be found here: http://writeworld.tumblr.com/post/45541876523/the-steaming-mug-of-tea-drew-a-slow-hot-circle-in-the
> 
> Writeworld is great for writer's block so if any one is struggling, I highly encourage you to visit their tumblr.

The steaming mug of tea drew a slow, hot circle in the laminate of the coffee table.

John stared at the mug in question and gripped the mug in his hand tighter in realisation.

He had made two mugs of tea. Again. He hadn't realised until he had placed one on the table. he hoped that one day he would get used to just making the one instead of being in the habit of making two.

John took a steadying breath, knuckles white around the handle of the mug he was holding and as calmly as possible, turned around and walked into the kitchen, sitting down at the table. He placed the mug down in front of him and brought his hands together, one fisted against the palm of the other and rested his chin on his thumbs, nose sitting on top of his hands and focused on just breathing for a few minutes.

Eventually, John took a deep breath and rubbed a hand across his face, standing as he did so. He walked into the living room and picked up the now cool mug of tea and walked back into the kitchen, lifting his own mug off the table as he passed on his way to the sink. He emptied the mugs of their tea and rinsed them out, sitting them to the side of the sink to dry. John walked over to the coat stand, grabbed his jacket and walked down the stairs and out 221B not entirely sure where he was going.

 

* * *

 

"I did it again," John had his eyes closed, head bowed, hands fisted in his pockets.

The rain was running down the back of his jacket but he didn't notice or care.

"I made two mugs of tea. It's been months since I did that. Even when you're dead you're a persistent bastard. Determined to make sure that I never forget you."

John opened his eyes and walked forward, placing his hand on the stone that read 'Sherlock Holmes'.

"I don't want to forget, I just want to move on. I can't keep doing this, it's killing me. I'm not going to visit anymore. I'm going to move all the case notes into storage. I'm going to move everything that reminds me too much of you into storage. And I'm only going to have one fucking mug in the flat. I'm sorry. I tried to keep going like everything was normal but you had to mess everything up again, didn't you?" John chuckled wetly and stepped back from the stone, wiping the moisture from his face.

He looked back at the stone and detested it. Hated it for what it meant. He stood to attention and gave a slight nod before giving an about turn and walking away.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock walked up the steps to 221B, pulling out the familiar key that he still kept on his person at all times.

He opened the door and breathed deeply, taking in the smell that he still recognised as home. Mrs Hudson was out but she had baked before she had left and the hall smelt homely and warm.

Sherlock walked forward and started to climb the seventeen stairs to the flat. He reached the top and stood in front of the door, not quite ready to open the door yet.

He knew that John was out, he had left about an hour and a half ago and would be returning soon, but for the moment the flat was empty.

Sherlock took a deep breath and opened the door.

Everything was the same as it had been before he had left 3 years ago. His armchair remained in its usual spot and his case notes were scattered about the flat. Even the mail was still stuck into the mantelpiece with his knife. The only difference was that everything was a bit neater than it had been when Sherlock had lived there. However, a thin-film of dust had settled on top of his things. In fact, there only seemed to be dust on his things as if someone had went out of their way not to touch or move any of it.

Sherlock closed his eyes as he stood in the doorway, a hand still on the handle, observing this with a quick glance around the living room. He opened his eyes and stepped forward, taking off his long coat and hanging it on the coat stand before walking into the kitchen and over to the sink.

He was going to make tea.

Two mugs. There were already two mugs sitting next to the sink. Sherlock took another deep breath, ignoring how it caught in his throat and started to make the tea. He picked up the mugs and leaned over to pick up the kettle and filled it with water. He flicked the switch on once he had returned it and walked over to the cupboard that he assumed still held the tea bags.

It was a simple task but it was enough to momentarily distract Sherlock from what was to happen as he focused on leaving the tea bags in the boiling water for the exact amount of time required for the perfect strength of brew and pouring the correct amount of milk that John liked to take in his tea.

Once the tea was made Sherlock carried the mugs over to the armchairs and placed one on the small table next to John's armchair and one on the mantle piece near to his own armchair before sitting down. He steepled his fingers placing the tips of his fingers to his mouth and stared at the door to the flat.

Sherlock knew that this was probably not the best way to announce his return but he wasn't brave or stupid enough to come back while John was in the flat. John would have heard him walking up the stairs and would have recognised his footsteps and John would have probably grabbed his gun.

Scratch that.

John would definitely grab his gun.

Sherlock quickly glanced down at the spot beneath John's armchair where the box containing the handgun sat before returning his gaze to the door. Had the box been empty, it would have sat on the table where the mug of rapidly cooling tea now sat.

Sherlock waited for another 23 minutes before he heard the door opening downstairs. He heard John enter the building before closing the door behind him and pausing. After a minute, he started to walk up the stairs, steps slow and determined, Sherlock counting each foot fall, his heart rate rising rapidly, until he reached seventeen.

He took a deep breath and then the door was opening.

John entered the flat, head bowed and didn't notice Sherlock sat in the armchair. He closed the door behind him and turned to lean his forehead against the door.

Sherlock didn't say anything, his heart in his throat, hardly daring to breathe, fingers lowered slightly. His head still against the door, John removed his jacket and reached out with one hand to hang it on he coat stand.

Which is when his hand brushed against Sherlock's coat.

John froze, his entire body going rigid. He stood up straight and turned to look at Sherlock's coat.

The hand that was still holding his own coat dropped to his side and the jacket fell to the ground at his feet. John lifted his other hand to touch Sherlock's coat, not quite believing that what he was seeing was real despite the very real feel of the coat against his knuckles moments before.

John reached up and placed his palm against the coat, his body tensing even more as it came into contact and yes, this was real. This was Sherlock's coat hanging on the coat stand, still damp from the rain outside.

Sherlock continued to watch from his armchair, hardly daring to move because John was finally standing in front of him. Yes, he was thinner than before and paler than he used to be but it was his blogger, alive and there in front of him and not separated from him by a road or a crowd.

"How?" The word was quiet and broken as it fell from John's lips and it made Sherlock's chest ache.

"I would have thought that it would have been fairly obvious." Sherlock replied softly.

John whirled round and upon seeing Sherlock sat in his armchair, took a rapid step back into the coat stand, tripping and landing on his rear facing Sherlock. Sherlock jumped out of his armchair and rushed over to John to help him stand. However, John held up a hand while pushing himself away, sliding backwards until his back hit the wall and Sherlock stopped his advance, standing about 4 feet away from John in the middle of the living room.

Sherlock looked down at him and locked his eyes with John, who was wide-eyed and breathing quickly, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

John stared at Sherlock, fairly sure that he had finally gone crazy because Sherlock could not be standing in front of him, it just wasn't possible.

He lowered his hand from where it hung in midair stopping Sherlock and reached back to push against the wall and stood up, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's whose gaze followed him as he rose from the floor. He continued to stare as he focused on taking a few deep breaths trying futilely to calm down his heart which was beginning to leave an imprint on his ribs from beating so hard.

After a minute or so of just breathing, John stepped forward and it was Sherlock's turn to go rigid. He slowly closed the gap between them until there was no more than an arm's length separating them and raised a hand to touch Sherlock in the same way he had done so with the coat.

He slowly moved his hand towards Sherlock's chest, to the point above his heart, freezing when he was only an inch from contact.

He could feel the heat of Sherlock's body.

He closed the gap before he bottled out and sucked in a breath when he felt the heart beat underneath his hand. It was beating almost as fast as his own. John's hand fisted in Sherlock's shirt and he closed his eyes tight against the swell of emotion the swept through him.

"Bastard."

The word was quiet and John's voice cracked as he spoke.

"I know."

Sherlock sounded as broken as John.

"You absolute fucking bastard."

Although John had started off quiet, the last two words were yelled and the hand that had previously been resting against Sherlock's chest was now pulled back and swung forward, hitting Sherlock across the cheek hard enough to knock him to the floor.

Sherlock seen it coming and didn't bother trying to protect himself from the impact. He felt he deserved it after what he had put John through. It may not have been through choice and Sherlock knew he had only done what was best for John in the situation he had found himself in but he knew what the fallout would be.

He pushed himself up from the ground so that he was leaning on his elbows and looked up at John from where he lay on the ground.

His cheek was smarting but Sherlock was too busy staring at John. He had turned his back to Sherlock and was shaking out his hand. Sherlock stood up and stared at John's back.

He was reminded of an alley and an angry doctor where John had repeated a similar action. Again, Sherlock had hurt John and John had hurt him in return and now Sherlock was waiting for the second blow but this time he was expecting it. He hadn't expected John to lunge for him last time.

John turned round and stared at Sherlock for a moment before quickly walking forward, hands reaching out to grab Sherlock's shirt and pulling him forward, letting go of his shirt to wrap his arms around Sherlock. Sherlock's own arms went around John's shoulders and back and he hugged his doctor tightly, dipping his head to rest against the side of John's who had pressed his face into Sherlock's neck.

"Bastard."

John whispered again, arms tightening around Sherlock.

"I know." Sherlock repeated just as softly.

He knew that what was to follow would not be pretty but for now, he held on to his blogger, happy to finally be home.


End file.
